by Jo Verity
Why hadn’t she thought it through? Maybe Alex couldn’t be bothered to phone his mother but Vashti would want to check that her son was okay. If she’d learned one thing in the short time she’d spent with Jordan it was that he rarely volunteered any form of information. And when he did, it was with the intention of causing consternation.
Of course Alex was fine. She’d hear soon enough if anything were wrong. If she was determined to fret about someone it should be Ben. Whilst Alex was meandering through the Highlands in a cloud of heather and skirling pipes, Ben was thousands of miles away, negotiating the mean streets of Houston, in a country where guns were as available as water-pistols, and police-cars, sirens wailing, screeched around every corner. His job – his whole lifestyle – was an enigma to her which made it impossible to know when she should fret or what she should fret about. At least, from an early age, he’d always been scrupulous about looking both ways before crossing the road. She should be thankful that it was Ben, not Alex, who was dodging bullets and Cadillacs.
She forced a smile. ‘Could you give me a shout next time your mum rings? I wouldn’t mind having a quick word … just to let her know …’
Diane stood up. ‘Anyone fancy anything? Crisps? Beer?’
‘A beer would be good,’ Carl said, ‘or maybe Elizabeth would prefer a glass of wine. I will help you with it.’
Alone with Jordan for the first time since their arrival, Elizabeth asked, ‘Everything okay? You and Carl seem to be getting on well.’
He nodded, ‘Yeah. He’s sound.’
‘You must tell me if there’s anything you want to do. Or anything you need.’
He looked up. ‘I wouldn’t mind having my money. Fifteen pounds for today. And there’s the ten I lent you for the—’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ In order to preserve a measure of dignity in the matter of his wages she added, ‘But we agreed, didn’t we, that it would be paid in arrears? Strictly speaking, you should wait until bedtime.’
‘But the ten pounds was a loan, so strictly speaking …’
‘For goodness sake, what difference does it make whether you have it now or at bedtime? What are you planning to spend it on in the next couple of hours?’
‘I think I’ll go to bed.’ He stood up. ‘So can I have my money?’
She checked her watch. ‘It’s only five to eight.’
‘You said I should tell you what I want to do. Well, I want to go to bed. Now.’
Retrieving her handbag from beneath her chair, she took out her purse, handing him a twenty pound note and the rest in small change.
He dropped the money into the pockets in his jeans. ‘Thanks.’
‘Goodnight,’ she called to his retreating back, determined that he shouldn’t know that he’d got to her, unwilling for him to have the last word of this long day.
Closing her eyes, she let out a sigh. Eight o’clock. Maggie would be hopping over the wall to water the pots. Hearing her, the cat would materialise to rub against her legs, making sure she didn’t forget to feed him.
She pictured her garden, so loved and lovely in comparison to this one. Flanked on both sides by flimsy panel fencing, Diane’s garden – at least three times the size of her own – consisted of a stark rectangle of lawn bisected by a stepping-stone path leading from the back door, via a rotary clothesline, to the ‘deck’ where she was now sitting. In the corner, behind her, stood a shed. She imagined that this contained the mower and possibly a hedge trimmer for the privet hedge that marked the boundary between this garden and The Rain Man’s plot. There might also be a spade and a fork, although there was no need for either. It was high summer but, apart from the grass, nothing grew in this garden. No flowers, no shrubs, not even a few geraniums in a pot. The only colour was provided by plastic pegs, perched on the clothes line like a flock of miniature birds.
It astounded her that anyone as visually aware – as creative – as Diane could tolerate this barren vista. But not everyone cared for gardening or found it satisfying. And, for all she knew, the catenaries of the clothes line set against the rectangles of green grass and brown fencing might, to anyone who was into that sort of thing, be viewed as a glorious abstract.
Voices from the far side of the hedge interrupted her musings. Two girls were arguing. At first she couldn’t make out what they were saying but, as the argument became more heated, their voices grew louder.
‘That’s not fair—’
‘You never wear it—’
‘So?’
‘Anyway, it looks better on me.’
A man’s voice – a mellifluous, accented voice – butted in. ‘Knock it off you two.’
‘But it’s not fair, Dad. Tell her she’s got to—
The man again. ‘Supper’s ready. Come on. Let’s discuss this like civilised human beings.’
‘What’s to discuss? It’s mine. End of.’
The voices faded and a door slammed.
Looking at the back of Diane’s plain, modest house Elizabeth noticed a figure standing at one of the upstairs windows. Jordan. Was he watching her or studying the neighbours? She waved, feeling mildly triumphant when he disappeared from view.
*
Adjusting the lamp on the bedside table, she opened her book, half-listening for footsteps on the stair. She’d read only a few pages when there was a gentle tap on the door. ‘Come in.’
Diane nudged the door open. ‘Got everything you need?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
She waited, assuming that she was going to discover why her friend was so keen to talk to her.
‘No rush in the morning. There’ll be plenty of hot water if you—’
‘Di, it’s me, remember? You don’t have to do the perfect hostess bit.’
Diane stood at the end of the bed. ‘I thought we could maybe skive off in the morning. Find somewhere quiet and have a proper chat.’
‘You’re making me nervous. At least give me a clue what this is about. I shan’t be able to sleep for wondering.’
‘You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.’
‘And don’t forget there’s Jordan. I can’t simply scoot off—’
‘Carl’s around in the morning. He can keep an eye. We’ll be home for lunch. Anyway, boys his age never get up before midday.’
There was the rattle of what sounded like the front-door chain slotting into place followed by Carl’s tread on the stairs.
‘You mustn’t worry, Lizzie. It’ll be okay. Sleep well.’
And she was gone.
Elizabeth took out her phone. It would be after midnight in France but Laurence might still be awake, buzzing with post-prandial adrenalin. She scrolled through to his number and pressed ‘call’, vaguely relieved when it cut straight to voicemail. What had she been going to say? That she loved him, naturally. And that she was missing him dreadfully. Were she at home on her own, that might be true, but, to be honest, he’d barely crossed her mind in the past twenty-four hours. Besides they’d agreed that, unless there was a crisis, they would stick to texting.
Sure the paupiettes (predictive text suggested patrietues forcing her to spell it, letter by letter) were delicious. Everything fine here. Miss you. × E
She was sure his paupiettes were delicious. And everything was fine – so far. There was no harm in adding the reassuring fib.
8
MONDAY: 9.30AM
‘Mustn’t wake the sleeping beauties,’ Diane said, closing the front door carefully.
‘You can’t fob me off much longer,’ Elizabeth said as they made their way to the bus stop. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re making it up. Whatever it is.’
‘Patience. Let’s find a nice café, treat ourselves to a coffee and a cream cake, and then,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘I will reveal all.’
The bus stop-started its way towards the city centre. The traffic was light and orderly in comparison with the London madness to which she was accustomed. She gazed out of the window at the semi-detached houses
lining their route. What would it be like to live there? Or there? Not so very different from living in West London, or East London, or anywhere else, come to that. Aspiration, disappointment, satisfaction, revenge – all were playing out on the far side of those net curtains. Regardless of where they happened to live, who didn’t want the best for their children, a couple of weeks holiday in the sun and a doctor’s appointment when they needed it?
The streetscape changed, squat semis gradually giving way to taller Victorian terraces. The brickwork looked so red and sharp in the morning sun that these dwellings might have been built yesterday.
‘Student-land,’ Diane said. ‘In term-time, you have to battle your way down the pavement.’
Another change – more abrupt this time. To the right, parkland bordered by mature oaks and beeches, to the left, edifices of pale grey stone.
‘Law Courts. City Hall. Over there, with the columns, the National Museum of Wales.’ Diane pointed to a grassed area with a fountain and old-fashioned flower beds. ‘They set up an ice-rink here at Christmas. And a fun fair.’
‘How much are they paying you?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Who?’
‘The Cardiff Tourist Board.’
‘Not enough.’ Diane reached out and pressed the bell. ‘C’mon. This is our stop.’
They ended up in an old-fashioned café in one of the city’s Victorian arcades, where a skinny girl with Slavic cheekbones took their order.
‘So,’ Elizabeth folded her arms and leaned forward. ‘What’s this all about?’
Diane took a deep breath. ‘Think back twenty-five years, to the mid-eighties. You came to see me around that time. I don’t know if you remember. I was living—’
‘In Leeds. In that basement flat.’
Elizabeth wasn’t likely to forget that visit. Diane had written, asking her to come – a melancholy little note with no specific reason given for the invitation. So she’d left her young sons with Laurence and gone to Leeds, hoping that she’d got the wrong end of the stick. But her instinct had proved right. Grieving, damaged, short of money and directionless, Diane was in a bad way. An air of hopelessness hung over her. She was clearly suffering from depression. She needed help. Yet, sitting in that dank basement, preoccupied with thoughts of her family – had Laurence remembered to latch the stair gate? Was Ben going down with another bout of bronchitis? – Elizabeth was conscious that, despite her promises and good intentions, she was in no position to offer Diane the help she needed. They’d spent a miserable few hours together and Diane had made no attempt to dissuade her from catching an early train back to London. As she was leaving she’d shoved a handful of notes into Di’s pocket but this simply made her feel more wretched about failing her friend.
‘It’s seared into my memory. I cried all the way home.’
Diane reached across the table and touched Elizabeth’s hand. ‘You always saw things so clearly. You never got bogged down with useless crap. I was sure you’d to come up with something – a survival strategy, if you like. But as soon as I saw you, all grown-up and sorted whilst I was floundering in the mire, I knew it wasn’t going to work. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t your fault. We were simply out of synch. I was totally fucked. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. That’s why I kept moving around – to kid myself that I was doing something, which was probably what saved me from … but it meant I was never anywhere long enough to make friends. Acquaintances, yes, but not friends.’
She twisted her spoon in the saucer. ‘I hit rock-bottom in Leeds. I’d lost touch with my family. They’d always been a waste of breath. All of them. You were the only person I had. But there was no way I could come to London. It wouldn’t have been fair to you. And besides, Laurence didn’t like me. He considered me a bad influence.’ She smiled. ‘He still does, come to that.’
Yes. He does.
‘Thanks for letting me off the hook,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Nonsense. Anyway that was over twenty years ago and we’ve had plenty of fun times together since then, haven’t we?’
Elizabeth frowned. ‘So why have you never told me … whatever the hell this is that you still haven’t told me?’
‘I know, I know. I’ve come within a whisker so many times.’
‘And?’
Diane folded her paper napkin in half then in half again. ‘This sounds arsey coming from me but I really value your respect, Lizzie. I didn’t want you to think I was a totally spineless, witless, immoral, corrupt—’
‘Drama queen?’
‘Something along those lines.’
The waitress collected their empty cups.
‘You like another?’
They ordered two more coffees.
‘Paul’s death was so random. So pointless. Til Death do us part. Oh, and by the way, that’ll be today. Like a spiteful joke. I honestly think I nearly died of a broken heart. But I survived – just about – and I swore that I would never let that happen to me again. From then on, I kept my distance and kept on the move, as you know. Most of the time it was bearable, and there were always men around if I needed …’ she grimaced, ‘comfort. Do I sound like a complete tart?’
‘Yes.’ Elizabeth’s gentle tone belied her reply.
‘I carried on like that for a long time. Kept on keeping on, as the song goes.’
‘I’m so, so sorry?’
‘It was bad timing. You were busy being a student. Then Laurence and the kids came along. Like I said, we were out of synch.’ Diane smiled. ‘My life was a mess but I have to say I thought you were out of your mind when you chucked everything up for domesticity.’
Chucked everything up. Was that what she’d done?
She’d met Laurence Giles when she was halfway through the final year of her sociology degree with no idea what to do when she graduated. He was a handsome, witty, confident young solicitor and within a month of their meeting, he had wooed and won her. No one had said much when she announced that they were getting married. Her parents, the ones who might have felt let down, had been caught in a quandary. Their daughter was, on the face of it, wasting her education, but becoming a solicitor’s wife was as good as having a career, wasn’t it?
‘I’ve forgotten how or why I ended up in Leeds. Maybe because that’s where the bus stopped. I got a part-time job in a pub, working enough hours to cover rent and food. I spent any spare time I had painting and touting my stuff around galleries, hoping to get spotted by an agent.’
‘Yes. That flat reeked of linseed oil and turps.’ Elizabeth closed her eyes. ‘I can smell it now.’
‘Bar work suited me. Company and conversation without the hassle of relationships. I could observe from a safe distance. In fact I included a few of the regulars in my paintings.’
‘Like Toulouse Lautrec.’
‘Sort of. But with longer legs and less talent.’
Diane sat tall and flexed her shoulders. ‘One evening, a young man came into the pub. I’d seen him once or twice before. You couldn’t miss him because of his hair, blue-black, like jackdaw feathers, curly but greasy enough not to look girlish. I guessed he was Spanish or Italian. His face was interesting. Beautiful yet cruel. Until he smiled. Even his crooked teeth couldn’t spoil that smile.’
Diane stared out of the window. Elizabeth kept quiet, anxious not to interrupt the unfolding story.
‘His name was Marin Vexler. He was Romanian. He’d been involved with some political group, working to oust Ceausescu. The Securitate were on to him. He’d managed to give them the slip and get out of the country. Somehow he’d bribed his way across Europe. At least that’s what he told me. At the time the whole thing sounded totally plausible and extremely romantic. It fitted with everything we were hearing about Romania. And don’t forget my life was utterly banal. I was desperate to find a focus, something to give it meaning. I suppose I wanted to believe in him, and he was smart enough to latch on to that.
‘He told me he was picking up casual work as a car mechanic and
getting paid cash. It was all very vague. His English was adequate but not fluent enough to express complicated ideas. He didn’t say much and I didn’t press him. We started seeing each other.’
‘Was this before or after I came to see you?’
‘After. As I say, I was really struggling, prepared to grab anything that might dig me out of the shit I was in.’
The waitress cleared the table, lingering hopefully.
Diane stood up. ‘I can’t face any more coffee, can you? C’mon. Let’s get some fresh air.’
As they walked, Diane reverted to small talk, clearly enjoying keeping Elizabeth on tenterhooks, making her wait for the next instalment of the story, enjoying the drama of it all. Elizabeth didn’t press her. With recollections of how she’d failed her friend raw in her mind, she resolved to let Di call the shots.
Diane led her through an underpass to the grassy area in front of the civic buildings. The grass was dotted with groups of people – mainly visitors judging from the maps and cameras they were carrying – enjoying a respite from shopping and sightseeing.
Elizabeth flopped down, patting the turf beside her. ‘So, you and this Marin Vexler…’
‘Became lovers. Yes.’ Diane shrugged. ‘I guess that tends to happen sooner rather than later if you don’t speak each other’s language. You can only spend so much time miming and drawing diagrams.
‘I won’t embarrass you with the details but I’d been single for a while and the sex was … fantastic. The language thing – the lack of it, I mean – made it all the more romantic. It certainly put the emphasis on the physical side of things.’
‘Were you in love with him?’
‘Infatuated, certainly. Love? It was nothing like Paul. But nothing ever will be so there’s no point in making that comparison. Anyway, he moved in. It made sense. Neither of us had any money and it was crazy to pay rent on two places. Then …’ she closed her eyes as though not daring to see Elizabeth’s expression, ‘then he asked me to marry him.’